


Fallen

by Nekositting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Religious, Blasphemy, Deal with a Devil, Demons, Enough Plot to Give Context, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fallen Angels, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Snake-faced Voldemort, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 17:35:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17047580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekositting/pseuds/Nekositting
Summary: “I willneveragree to your terms, whatever they might be. There is nothing that you possess that I could ever want. Not if it comes at the price of my ownpurity.”Voldemort released her and stepped away, his eyes never wavering from hers as she spoke.Then, he smiled. It was thin, close-lipped. His eyes slanted and shrewd.“Let us both hope for your sake then,Hermione, that that is not the case.”





	Fallen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marauderswagger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marauderswagger/gifts).



> Prompt: ‘Baby, you’re my angel.’
> 
> Here I am. Back on my bullshit.
> 
> I wrote this in about two days. This was only supposed to be a drabble. But of course, leave it to me to employ zero restraint.
> 
> Note: no religious disrespect is intended.
> 
> That being said, enjoy!
> 
> Also, thanks to the lovely, BrightneeBee and Infallibleangel for betaing <3

“No!”

Hermione rattled the bars of her prison, incensed.

They couldn’t do this to her. They  _ couldn’t. _

She had to save him, to protect him. They’d eat him alive out there, alone, in the human world.

_ Harry. _

She had to find him, to do something. He was her  _ charge _ . What was a guardian angel without her ward? What was a guardian angel that failed to keep its ward’s soul from being damned?

“Well, well—”

Hermione froze, her hands dropping away from the magicked bars to take a step back. She knew that voice. 

How could she not? No one could ever forget the voice of one of their own. Even it’d been centuries since he’d fallen.

“—what a pleasant surprise.”

Hermione grit her teeth, eyeing the shadows clinging to the walls of her cell. They sank into the cracks of the stone, bled and clung to the corridors far beyond her reach. Endless.

It was like gazing straight into an abyss.

“What are you doing here, Voldemort?” Hermione spat, stepping further into the cell until her back pressed against the wall. Ice seeped through her robes, bit and gnawed at the bumps of her spine. Hermione paid it no mind.

Laughter filtered through the cell. It echoed, like a chasm. On and on, it rang, and Hermione sucked in a slow breath between her teeth to stifle the unease it wrought. 

“Why, I am only paying my  _ favorite _ a visit,” Voldemort said, his voice sliding through her senses like the rot of decaying flesh. Hermione tried not to gag, swallowing back her bile before glaring into the dark.

She refused to give him the satisfaction of appearing phased. 

“Oh, your favorite, am I? If I recall, you almost had my wings severed during the War,” Hermione replied at the same time the shadows began to move. They swirled like a mist. Writhing like the bodies of tiny insects crushed beneath one’s shoe.

“Semantics.”

Hermione’s breath caught when the shadows receded, melting into nothing until a lone shadow stood at the center of the room, just on the other side of the bars. Her fingers curled into fists, her own hair curling with magic.

She knew he couldn’t pass through the bars. He couldn’t get in any more than she could get out, but still, she couldn’t help the reaction. Voldemort had always made her skin crawl, even back when they’d been comrades—both given the task of guiding humanity to the light.

“It has been centuries since the war, Hermione. The earth is no longer as it once was, and humans—” The figure stepped closer to the bars, stopping mere centimeters from it. He made no move pull back the cloak over his head, masking the monstrous features he now possessed. “—are much more prone to sin, to the corruption of their souls.”

Hermione grit her teeth, refusing to take the bait. She knew what he was doing. He was trying to provoke her, to get her angry enough to bridge the space between them in this cell. 

She wasn’t stupid.

“That’s because monsters like  _ you  _ exist. Without you in this world, without you corrupting and leading the humans astray, there would be no need for me to guard them,” Hermione hissed, her heart racing when the shadow laughed once more.

A flash of red bloomed in the darkness, and Hermione’s eyes trained on it. Knowing what they were.

_ They were Voldemort’s eyes... _

They blinked at her from the dark, through the shadows of his own cloak. Serpentine. The pupils, even from the distance, discernible: slit and inhuman. The perfect face for the monster that possessed them.

It was almost funny how Voldemort had once been the most beautiful, the most favored of the angels. To think that there was none of that beauty left, that he was nothing more than a boogeyman that haunted the beds of the weak and vulnerable, was only fitting.

“It astounds me that you could remain this ignorant and naive after all this time.”

Hermione bit back her retort, opting to glare instead. 

_ Calm down, Hermione. Don’t let him push you. You’re not the little fledgling that looked up to and admired your elders. This is not  _ Tom.  _ Not anymore. _

“Humans are a cursed breed. Precocious, selfish, and cruel. A blight. They are not deserving of the kindness we have given them. Tell me—”

Hermione made to open her mouth but paused, attention snapping to the pale and clawed hands that revealed themselves when he tugged at the hood of his cloak. Then, they were pulling the hood back, revealing centimeter by centimeter of his face until he was exposed to her gaze.

_ Oh _ .

“—how  _ are  _ your charges doing? I’ve heard such interesting things about them, about  _ you. _ ”

Hermione pressed her hand against her mouth to stifle her startled gasp, her eyes unable to rip away. 

When she’d last seen him, perhaps two or three decades ago, he’d had some semblance of his angelic status left. Barely there, but it had been in the curve of his jaw and the jut of his nose. Even the way his eyes had crinkled when he’d seen her had been reminiscent of his days at her side, staff in hand to battle the creatures sucking at the souls of the living.

Now, however, there was nothing left of that man. Nothing even vultures could pick at with their beaks.

Tom Riddle was gone. All that remained was Voldemort. 

“I never thought I would see the day that it would be  _ you  _ in this cell. It is curious, indeed. You are nothing but  _ loyal  _ to the cause, standing behind the failures and indiscretions of your charges even when you know your pets are  _ lost _ —”

“Shut up.”

She bared her teeth at him, fuming. Voldemort only smiled, his pale and gaunt face twisting. It made her want to retch, the way his flesh resembled that of a human skull—desiccated and white.

“What did you  _ do _ , Hermione, to have earned his disfavor?” Voldemort asked, red eyes trained on hers. Hermione swallowed beneath his scrutiny, her skin breaking out into gooseflesh.

He didn’t blink. Not once. She wondered if he even  _ had  _ eyelids anymore with that monstrous face of his.

“It’s not your concern. It hasn’t  _ been  _ your concern since you fell, Voldemort,” Hermione hissed, her teeth catching on her lip to stop herself from launching herself at the bars when he grinned, all teeth.

It was the single most mocking expression she’d ever seen. How she loathed it,  _ hated  _ him. How was it that he, a  _ demon _ , had freedom whilst she, one of His elite, was imprisoned? How  _ dare  _ he mock her for her kindness. For caring, as if it was a flaw, the  _ reason  _ for her imprisonment. She’d done nothing wrong.

She’d only—

_ Don’t think about it. _

She hadn’t turned her back on Him as Voldemort had done. She’d toiled and watched body after body wither away, human soul after human soul fade into nothing, without a word. Heavens knew how many humans she’d had fall into Voldemort’s clutches, soul poisoned by the sweet lies and painful truths he murmured against their ears.

_ Just as Harry would too, if you don’t get out of here. _

“Oh, but it  _ is  _ my concern. One of your humans has been sniffing around things that it shouldn’t. You must be aware of this fact, no?”

Hermione’s world twisted. Her hand fell away from her mouth to clutch at the stones pressed against her back for balance.

_ No _ .

Terror sliced through her insides, her heart racing in her chest. 

_ No. No. No. Harry couldn’t have _ —

It wasn’t possible.

“Harry, I believe is what it calls itself? Quite curious, indeed.”

Hermione didn’t respond, couldn’t. There was a lump forming in her esophagus. Hard and serrated. 

“Such a stubborn little thing, too.”

“What do you want?” Hermione snapped, straightening her back when Voldemort only shook his head. He was still smiling, but his eyes—

They’d gone cold. 

“Many things.”

Hermione let out a long-suffering sigh, forcing herself to edge away from the wall of her cell. 

Revulsion twisted in her gut the closer she came to him, his features sharpening. There was no turning away, no averting one’s gaze. 

There were scales on his jaw and brow bones. They glimmered a bright blue and lilac, even without a single light source in sight. The slits in his nose became more prominent the nearer she drew, the cruel twist of his mouth a jagged slash on his face.

His eyes were the worst, had always been.

Especially when she could still recall what their color had been before he’d fallen. Saw that precise color, every evening, when gazing into the Earth’s unoccupied forests.

_ A deep, unfathomable brown that one could easily mistake for black.  _

“Don’t be obtuse. You know what it is that I’m asking,” Hermione said through clenched teeth once she stopped a short distance from the bars. 

He was taller than her, as most angels were, but Hermione did not allow it to cow her.  Even if Voldemort had shed that identity to don this new form.

“Ask me intelligent questions, and I might see fit to give you an intelligent answer,” he replied, a smile stretching into a grin. Hermione ignored it, knowing better than to rise to his antagonism.

That was one thing that hadn’t changed.

“What does Harry have to do with you? Last I recall, you wanted  _ nothing  _ to do with humans. Not unless you were personally overseeing their own torture,” Hermione asked, head tilting to one side to get a better read on his expression.

In the past, she’d been more than capable of reading him. She knew his intentions, could divine his emotions with a simple raise of her brow. Now, however—

His face was frozen into a parody of creature and angel. She didn’t know what he was thinking and that unnerved her more than his monstrous face ever could.

“The human summoned me.”

Hermione’s blood ran cold.

_ What? _

“Days ago, in fact.”

Hermione sucked in a slow and deep breath to stifle the terror writhing in her stomach.

She’d only been in this cell for a few  _ days _ . How was it that Harry, in the time she’d been gone, summoned a bloody  _ demon _ ? Was he insane? Had he lost his  _ mind _ ?

“Oh, no need to fret. The human has made no request. It has only asked questions.”

Hermione was not comforted by this fact. Demons were wily little creatures. They always managed to get more out of a trade, even when humans were prepared.

Information, too, at times, was more dangerous than the granting of a wish. 

“Thus far, of course.”

Hermione pressed up against the bars before she could stop herself, her fingers clutching onto the metal for dear life. 

“ _ No _ —”

Voldemort’s chilling laughter cut her outburst, his hands settling over her own on the bars. It was like touching death. She didn’t flinch away even when her instincts screamed for her to back away, to push herself into the wall furthest from his person.

“No? I don’t believe you have much of a say in the matter.”

Hermione bit her lip until it stung, the taste of iron thick on her tongue when Voldemort’s eyes flashed, something cruel and curious in their depths. Hermione didn’t like it. 

“Especially not when you’re  _ here _ , suffering through His punishment until you are to be freed.”

He was right. Whether she liked it or not, there was nothing she could do to stop Harry from exchanging his soul to Voldemort. She was powerless to stop him.

That notion stung worse than the nails digging into the backs of her hands, than Voldemort’s cold breaths fanning across her cheeks.

“I’ve come to make a bargain. A trade of sorts—”

“No,” was Hermione’s vehement response, not at all regretting the acid in her tone when Voldemort’s clawed fingers slid past her hands to close around her wrists and yank her flush against the bars in retaliation.

She wouldn’t wilt. Outright refused to be beaten into submission even by the devil himself.

“You will  _ not _ —”

“I said  _ no _ . I do not bargain with demons, let alone  _ you _ ,” she seethed, glaring straight into his eyes despite the fury swimming in their depths. It couldn’t be helped.

Voldemort hated to be refused, but she’d have to be insane to consider bargaining with a demon. This would not be an arm’s length exchange. Nothing like the trade between humans for goods and services as Harry often explained. 

No. Demons were vile and tricky beasts. And Voldemort was the worst one of them all.

There was a pregnant pause. Neither of them spoke, the room settling into an all-encompassing silence. 

“Very well,” Voldemort said after some time, his simmering rage melting into the same cold, perilous expression he’d worn earlier. There was no sign of his earlier amusement. “I will let you think on this.”

Hermione shot him a scandalized look, hardly believing her ears. Did he really think she would change her mind? That she’d have a change of heart and  _ risk  _ her own heavenly status by bartering with a monster?

He really had lost his mind when he fell from heaven. 

“I will  _ never  _ agree to your terms, whatever they might be. There is nothing that you possess that I could ever want. Not if it comes at the price of my own  _ purity _ .”

Voldemort released her and stepped away, his eyes never wavering from hers as she spoke.

Then, he smiled. It was thin, close-lipped. His eyes slanted and shrewd.

“Let us both hope for your sake then,  _ Hermione _ , that that is not the case.”

His words were the last thing she heard before he vanished into nothing, plunging her into darkness.

* * *

 

Hermione didn’t know how long she’d been locked in that cell, her wings hidden away by His magic, and her powers contained. 

It could have been days, perhaps hours, she couldn’t be certain. All that she knew, since Voldemort’s visit, was that she’d been confined for more than a few days. It was entirely possible that it had been at most a  _ week _ .

Voldemort had not returned, and Hermione wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing considering how involved Harry had become with the occult. There was no telling what Harry was up to. None of her jailers spoke to her about the world outside, electing to serve her meals and depart as quickly as they could.

It was annoying, granted, but it was to be expected. When an angel was punished, none of them were permitted to speak to the confined until the culmination of the castigation. 

It was the rule, and they all knew it well. 

Still, it didn’t mean that she had to like it. 

“Hermione.”

_ Speak of the devil. _

She didn’t move from her place on the floor, the dirty sheets they’d provided for her to sleep in wrapped around her knees. 

“Still being punished, I see?”

Hermione didn’t look in his direction, the hairs of her arms standing on end as it had the first instance he’d visited.

She was tempted to ignore him, too. It was a stupid question. She wouldn’t be in this cell if she still wasn’t suffering through punishment. 

She didn’t ignore him, of course. As much as she’d like to, it was always best to know what it was that he wanted sooner as opposed to later. Voldemort, left to his own devices, was insufferable at best, and intolerable at worst.

“What do you want?”

Hermione knew precisely what he wanted, but asked anyway. She did so more out of politeness than anything else. 

_ Or _ , a cruel voice murmured in Hermione’s mind,  _ out of spite. You know better than anyone just how much he hates to repeat himself. _

Voldemort didn’t speak for some time, and Hermione didn’t fall all over herself to get an answer. 

Even with how invasive his presence was, how  _ unwanted _ his staring could be, there were worse fates than this. She was lucky. 

She could have had her wings removed at His command, and she’d be powerless to stop it. Not that she’d have attempted anything at all. His word was law. She wouldn’t exist if not for His providence and—

“He has summoned me again.”

Hermione shot to her feet in an instant, stomping over to the bars of her cell. 

The  _ ‘he’  _ in his words told her all she needed to know.

“What have you—”

“I’ve done nothing. It has only been questions, nothing worthy of taking his soul.”

Voldemort smiled. Hermione didn’t smile back. 

_ Nothing worthy of taking his soul. _

Since when did Voldemort  _ not  _ take every opportunity to rip out a human’s soul? 

Suspicion writhed in her stomach, not at all trusting the cool gleam in his eyes.

He was up to something. He had to be.

With a lift of her chin, Hermione shot him a disbelieving glance. She couldn’t help it if she tried. Being around humans had all but ruined the tact and elegance she’d once worn around her like a cloak.

“And what  _ is  _ it that you’re waiting for? It isn’t like you to wait, to humor humans regardless of the value of their wish.” 

Voldemort tilted his head, a slow smile curling over his lip that looked— _ dare she say it _ —fond. Hermione wanted to wipe it off his face. 

“Hermione,  _ love _ , are you implying that you’d prefer I take his soul now?”

Hermione whipped away from the bars as if burned. 

_ No _ .

That wasn’t what she’d meant at all. She’d much rather he take  _ no _ souls at all.

“That’s not what I—”

“Oh, then please explain. What is it that you meant? Tell me, Hermione, what would  _ He  _ say if He heard you? Would He be as understanding as I would be? Care for any explanations at all?”

Hermione pushed her fingers through her hair, nearly yanking the strands out in frustration. 

This was ridiculous.  _ Absurd. _

“I doubt a few days in this cell would be sufficient a punishment for that errant tongue of yours. Perhaps—”

Hermione swallowed hard when he leaned into the bars and gripped the bars between his fingers. His eyes were on her face, sliding over her features. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh as if his gaze alone were capable of touching her through the bars.

“—that  _ is  _ why you are here. What did you say? What has upset Him so to drag you here and away from the boy with too great a curiosity?”

Hermione remained silent, too stubborn to speak. She avoided his gaze, boring a hole into his forehead instead. 

He couldn’t read minds, at least as far as she knew, but she wasn’t going to chance it. He’d come too close to the truth for comfort.

“Or, maybe it is not what you said,” Voldemort whispered, his voice sliding across her senses like the grind of metal against metal, “but what you  _ thought _ , what you refused to say while beneath His all-knowing scrutiny.”

Her cheeks were on fire, her nerves rattled. 

She couldn’t make it known.

Voldemort was the last person she needed knowing the illicit truth of her deeds.

“He was never one for forgiveness, the old man. Not for us, at least. His  _ humans,  _ however, certainly receive all of His favor. They could do no  _ harm _ ,” Voldemort said with obvious scorn.

Hermione pressed her hands to her ears to silence him, to shut him out. He was playing with her thoughts, toying with her emotions. Somehow, someone had to have revealed the nature of her misdeeds.

There was simply no other way that Voldemort could have divined such knowledge, could have been so on the mark.

“This isn’t any of your  _ business _ ,” she all but hissed, tearing her hands from her ears to shoot him a mutinous glance. “What I do, whatever misdeeds I commit, they are none of your concern and have  _ since  _ stopped involving you.”

Voldemort stilled. The humor and smug turn of his lips vanished. 

A cold, blank mask stared back at her and Hermione didn’t know what to make of it. Whether to recoil or meet his icy expression head on. 

This was a look she’d never seen on his face before.

“I see.” 

Voldemort’s eyes pierced her. A searching quality to the invasion that Hermione hadn’t anticipated. She stared back, for want of a better alternative. 

“Not only have you remained both ignorant and naive, Hermione. But it seems, you’ve grown callous, as well.”

Hermione flinched so hard she nearly tripped over her two feet. 

“I will remember this the next time your human calls for me.”

With a dramatic turn, one that, had the situation been less dire, she’d rolled her eyes at, he disappeared into a billow of black smoke. 

His words, and the sudden awareness that Voldemort had called Harry a _boy_ , as opposed to an _it_ , like a wrench in her stomach.

* * *

 

When the time came to leave, Hermione wasn’t certain what she’d find on the other side of her cell. 

She’d been sleeping on the ground for what felt like an eternity, the days melting into weeks, and those weeks into months that made little sense to her.

Hermione was accustomed to the slow, trickle of time, but situations like these—where He purposefully kept her in the dark—were new. 

So when she finally was allowed her freedom, her wings growing out from between her shoulder blades as if they’d never been taken from her at all, Hermione did what she’d been wanting to do since she’d been first confined:

Hermione went to find Harry.

Voldemort had stopped visiting her, and Hermione had been left to her own devices ever since. She almost wished she hadn’t said what she had said, if only to have never seen the look that flashed in his eyes— _ pain, pain, agony, so much pain _ .

He’d looked at her as if she’d wounded him, and not the other way around, centuries ago when he’d turned his back on her. 

Admittedly, it had made her angry. After the shock of the situation had passed, the suspense had all but vanishing into nothing, she’d been livid.

Hermione’s knuckles had ached from punching the stone in her cell, her vocal cords strained with her screams. 

_ You coward! How dare you!  _

She’d screamed it until she couldn’t anymore, until she was panting and lying on the cold floor to settle her racing heart.

It still irked her, even now. The sight of his gaze, wounded and walled off, like the spike of a blade in her sternum. He had no right to make her feel this way, to make her feel  _ guilty  _ for her words when he’d reaped what he sowed.

It was his fault that they’d—

Hermione flew until her wings ached, until the biting chill of the night air cut her to the bone. She hadn’t cast her warming spells, refusing to waste her magic on something that inconsequential when she’d spent so long without it.

_ A week _ , a voice reminded. The very words of the angels who’d let her out an echo in the back of her head.  _ You’ve been in that cell for a whole week. _

_ ‘Hermione.’ _

She snapped her head, nearly colliding with a satellite dish as she was gliding between buildings. 

_ That voice _ , Hermione thought, coming to an abrupt halt mid-air. 

She knew it. Would recognize it anywhere. It was—

_ ‘Hermione.’ _

She switched directions, shooting through the air with a strain of her wings and her will. The sky bent to her demands, easing her flight as she chased after that voice.

—it was Harry. 

She didn’t know where she was going, and she didn’t care. She could be flying straight to the sun, her wings melting and bubbling over with her growing proximity. It was her Harry that was calling, beckoning for her to go. How could she refuse? 

It was how Hermione found herself in a forest, diving and twisting away from gnarled branches. She didn’t recognize it, hadn’t recalled ever taking Harry here when he’d only been a child, too young to know the horrors of the real world. 

Unease prickled over her senses, cutting through the chill of the night air and the rush of blood to her ears. 

_ Something’s not right _ .

Still, she didn’t stop. She flew and flew into the unknown without reservations, an ounce of hesitation.  Regardless of the dangers, of the risks, if it was Harry that needed her, she’d gladly sacrifice it all. Her life was meaningless without the humans she protected.

It didn’t matter that they all lived and died in the end, that souls were forever and eternal and that she could meet them again.

Once they passed through heaven’s doors, they remembered nothing of the life they lived. Humans were born anew, were freed of the shackles of human fragility and memory.

_ Harry will stop remembering you. _

Hermione broke through the thicket, her arms coming out to stop the branches from tearing into her face and snagging her hair, and—

“Ah, we’ve been expecting you.”

All the air rushed out of her lungs, her mouth unable to close at the sight of Harry— _ her Harry _ —bound against a stone pillar, his forehead weeping streams of red tears, and Voldemort inches from him, a knife in hand. 

“Hermione!” Harry shouted, but then, he was quiet. The young boy with bright green eyes and an insatiable appetite for mischief had been silenced with only the twist of Voldemort’s hand. 

“What have you done?” 

Hermione dropped to the ground, her wings flapping outward, white and imposing. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from Harry, couldn’t force herself to look at Voldemort in spite of what this might mean for both of them.

_ If Voldemort is here, now, in the human world… _

Hermione banished the thought before it could form. She couldn’t think about it now. Harry was still her ward, her  _ boy _ . She was all he had, and he was her—

_ Brother? Child? Friend? _

“Ah, that is a question reserved best for your  _ ward _ , isn’t it Harry?”

Hermione tore her gaze from Harry’s pleading gaze to Voldemort’s, her lips curling into a snarl. She couldn’t help it, couldn’t contain it.

“Enough with the games. Why are you  _ here _ ? And why is he bleed—”

“Your  _ ward  _ has made a wish.”

All the blood drained from her cheeks. Hermione had never felt more hollow. 

“ _ No— _ ”

“Yes, Hermione. He has made a wish, and I have granted it.”

She choked on air, her breaths crushed by her own despair. It was like someone had dropped a boulder atop her, flattening her to the earth. 

Hermione dropped to her knees, her wings dropping over as if to protect her from the tidal wave of her own emotions. 

It was too much. 

_ Harry. Harry. Harry. _

“W-what did he,” Hermione swallowed, paused, choking on her own saliva and over the words. “What did he wish for?” She tried again, stronger, better. The words were small, quiet through the rush of her own blood in her ears, but she hardly paid it any mind. 

Displays of weakness or strength were inconsequential. Her pride? It didn’t matter if it cost her the world. 

_ If it costs you Harry. _

Hermione ripped her gaze away from the ground, uncertain of when she’d let her attention waver from Voldemort’s horrific face, and looked at the devil in their midst. She didn’t flinch at the thin smile on Voldemort’s face.

“You, of course.”

Hermione didn’t move. The words made no sense to her.

_ You. You. You. You. _

“What?” 

Voldemort stepped away from Harry’ form, eating up the short distance between them in moments with his longer legs. Hermione didn’t move from her place on the ground, the words sinking in.

_ You. You. You. You. _

“He wished for  _ you _ . He wished for you to be freed.”

Hermione pressed her hands into her eyes until they ached, vision going dark then white. It was too much. This all was.

Harry was just a  _ boy _ . 

“He’s just a child, you can’t take him. You  _ can’t— _ ”

Voldemort stopped in front of her, his robes grazing her cheeks and knees. She only pressed her hands harder to her face.

Maybe if she pressed hard enough, she wouldn’t see. If she went both deaf and blind, she wouldn’t have to watch Harry be cleaved in two, his adolescent face contorted into a mask of agony. 

“A price must be paid for services rendered.”

_ A price. _

_ A trade. _

_ A bargain. _

Hermione pulled her hands from her face, neck craning to stare up at Voldemort’s face. 

It was shadowed, but his eyes _ —even now— _ she could make out the swirling crimson of his irises, the slit of his pupils, and the hunger.

_ I’ve come to make a bargain _ .

Voldemort’s words, from days past, echoed in her mind. Like a thin blade, they cut through her stupor, prying her open.

All that remained was resignation. 

“I’ll pay it.”

Hermione rose from the ground, her eyes on his. She didn’t waver, didn’t buckle even as her wings unfurled at her back, shaking. 

It was the only outward expression of unease she could not repress.

“I’ll do whatever you want in exchange for Harry’s soul.”

Voldemort’s eyes were piercing, assessing. They took her in from the top of her head down to her bare feet, slow and invasive. She was like a raw nerve, in that instant. Exposed. 

She didn’t look away even when her cheeks burned with mortification, the heat in his eyes becoming something feral and depraved.

_ The way he’d used to look at you even when he’d been His right-hand man.  _

Both nothing and everything remain unchanged.

Voldemort’s head tilted, his hand curling over her shoulder, fingertips grazing her neck. Hermione shuddered beneath the touch, an icy shock of electricity pulsing where his fingers touched. 

Hermione swallowed, throat dry, when those fingers made their way to her hair, threading into the wild and untameable curls. She closed her eyes at the same time he released a low breath, a mixture of a pleased purr and a growl. 

“I will not take your light.”

Hermione’s eyes shot open, incredulous. 

“No, I would much rather have you. Here. In the world you love so much.”

Hermione didn’t understand. Have her? If he wasn’t going to clip her wings, take her halo, then—

Heat burned across her cheeks at the same time that Voldemort’s other hand pressed against her opposite shoulder, his touch searing through flesh and bone.

_ Oh. _

Hermione swallowed to stop herself from hyperventilating. 

It was unheard of for a demon to willingly demand that an angel copulate with it. Rarer than the idea of angels taking human lovers. That required that they willingly shed their immortality and role in guarding the human soul in exchange for companionship. However—

Hermione had never heard of an angel taking a lover, even less so when it was  _ Voldemort _ , especially when she was offering her own heavenly light for Harry’s sake.

None of this made sense. 

“Why?” Hermione asked, throat raw when Voldemort’s hands curled into the opening of her robes, nails scratching at the skin. Her skin broke out in gooseflesh in response, her spine stiffening when he began to pry them open without reply.

Hermione didn’t dare look away from him, though. She needed to know what he was thinking, to find a crack in his armor. She would go insane, otherwise. Mad if she was forced to focus only on his touch. 

It was too gentle for a man capable of such acts of cruelty. She didn’t want—nor welcome—his kindness. 

Especially when Harry was bound and gagged to a tree a short distance away, and within view. It was only occurring to her now that Voldemort had planned this from the beginning, biding his time to trap her like a butterfly in a spider’s web. She didn’t have the energy to be angry about this, however.

“Do you remember what you said the first time we’d met?”

Hermione’s mind reeled, her breath catching when her robes slid off her shoulders, pooling to her feet. She shook beneath his stare, her hands curling at her sides with the urge to cover herself up.

She didn’t.

She couldn’t save Harry’s soul without this sacrifice. 

With a quivering breath, Hermione tried to recall that time. She hadn’t thought about the past, about  _ him _ , in a long time. Choosing to bury such memories deep into her psyche to never be found, not when it had nearly torn her in two, centuries ago.

“...Yes.”

How could Hermione forget? 

To- _ Voldemort _ had been the closest to a friend she’d had.

Hermione tried not to buckle beneath the weight of his gaze when he stepped closer, his own robes falling away from his body, baring him for the world to see. She didn’t dare say a word about Harry, about the boy watching them with his too wide eyes.

To do so would be to damn her ward. 

Hermione reached for him, biting back the discomfort that twisted in her stomach when her hands fell on Voldemort’s shoulders, smoothing over his biceps. It was like touching the coils of a snake, smooth and cold. 

There was no warmth to be found, no  _ Tom _ , in the body bunching beneath her fingers. 

Hermione felt Voldemort’s gaze on her, but didn’t say anything, teeth biting into her cheek when Voldemort’s hands began to trail down her shoulder blades to palm her wings, threading through the feathers.

A shock rushed through her at the contact. They tingled beneath his touch, jerked and trembled as he ghosted his fingertips over them.

Hermione wished he would stop. It was...nice. She didn’t want this to be anything more than it was.

Her breath caught when his nails dug into them, short of painful, before releasing her wings. She jerked in his hold, but didn’t move, remained rooted in place until finally,  _ finally _ , he slid his hands away to smooth over the small of her back. His nails eliciting a strange shock of electricity that shot through her veins. 

It was like nothing she’d ever experienced before, and yet—

_ She remembered the press of his warm hands against hers, of the dimple over his cheek, of bottomless black eyes slanting at the corners with affection and humor. _

“What did you tell me, then?” Voldemort asked the same instant his hand splayed across her back and dragged her closer, her naked chest against his. A full body shiver erupted through her, volcanic and earth-shattering. “What did you say to me with that impertinent little mouth of yours?”

Hermione gasped when his hand curled into her hair and yanked her head back, forcing her to arch her spine and jut her chest beneath his gaze. His eyes devoured her bare skin, left none of her flesh unexplored. Her wings rippled behind her, blowing gusts of air with their restless motions.

“I-I said you shouldn’t be alone. That if you couldn’t get along with anyone else, that you could—”

Hermione words melted into a groan when his mouth descended, her feet lifting from the ground when he hiked her up and closed his lips around her nipple. It stoked something unknown, untouched inside her. A memory she’d abandoned, left to starve when Tom had nearly shorn off her wings when she’d refused to abandon Him, to clutch onto Tom’s hand and fall, fall,  _ fall  _ into the unknown.

“—that you could be my  _ friend _ . Because you didn’t have any.”

Voldemort bit at the nub, sucking it into his mouth and devouring her, as if he’d waited hundreds of years to taste her, and maybe, he had. 

_ Perhaps _ , Hermione thought, toes curling when his serrated teeth nipped at the skin hard enough to cut,  _ he’d been waiting for this very moment. Dreamt of it, even. _

Hermione’s nails dug into his shoulders, head snapping further back when the hand at her back fell to her buttocks and squeezed. A jolt rushed through her at the bite of his nails, of the wet slide of his tongue against her nipple. Her wings curled around them both, cocooning them. She couldn’t stop the reaction even if she’d tried.

He was cold everywhere he touched her, but his mouth,  _ his tongue _ , they burned her. 

“Y-you didn’t like that. Even under His favor, you were displeased with associating with the rest of us, even though you never expressed as much,” Hermione elaborated, a short breath escaping her when he pulled away with a wet pop from her chest, a string of saliva tied between her skin and his lips.

Her stomach tightened at the sight.

“There was only ever one that was worth associating with.”

Hermione’s vision spun, her insides catapulting in her belly when Voldemort twisted her in his arms and dropped her onto the unforgiving ground with him above her, body slotting between her parted legs. 

Her hands clung to his shoulders for dear life, whispering a spell beneath her breath so that her wings receded back into her body. The last thing she needed was to crush them beneath her weight.

From this angle, she no longer had a clear view of Harry’s terrified face. Not that she wanted to, at that moment. Something hard was pressed into her, touching her in places she narrowly avoided looking at in the mirror.

“Oh? I don’t believe that’s true, Tom,” Hermione replied at the same time Voldemort’s hands curled into her hair and forced her head back against the dirt, the other hand splaying over the center of her chest where her heart laid. 

She wondered if he could hear it beating, if he could feel it beneath his palm. She hoped he didn’t. It was racing.

“What you felt, what you  _ wanted _ , wasn’t within the realm of possibility. It was wrong,” Hermione said through clenched teeth when his hand began to trail down her chest, clawed fingers poking at each of her ribs like he wanted to rip each one straight out of her body, until the hand stopped over her stomach.

A shiver rocked through her, her eyes stinging at the corners from refusing to blink, from staring at the darkening sky above her head. The sun had long since set, but still, the stars burned her—like tiny, little eyes watching her.

They, like Harry, would be the ones to witness her debasement. 

“The way you looked at  _ me _ ,” Hermione gasped when his hand fell lower, fingers now hanging over her navel, claws receding. It was so close to her sex that she couldn’t think. Her world had narrowed to that minute touch. “I knew it wasn’t natural. It was like I was a possession, like you wanted to take me into your mouth and-and—”

Voldemort’s hand slipped between her thighs, parting her folds to bare her to his gaze. Hermione shut her eyes, her cheeks heating with misplaced excitement and shame. 

“You’re wet.”

Hermione choked, her hand sliding away from his shoulder to cover her face, hips bucking when his fingers slid up against her, grazing something along the flesh. Her insides twisted at the responding heat that flooded her.

“W-what was that?” Hermione breathed, ignoring Voldemort’s crude remark. The quicker he took his fill, the better.

“That was your clitoris. When you touch it like  _ so _ —”

Hermione keened when his fingers rubbed that place in earnest. Trembling, Hermione struggled against his grip on her head, to look down and see for herself what he was doing to elicit such responses. He held fast, however, refusing to let go.

She didn’t  _ get  _ it. She’d heard the stories, knew that humans copulated to breed and as a form of deep-seated affection, but this was unheard of for her kind. 

“—it stimulates nerve-endings beneath your skin that evokes a pleasurable sensation.”

Hermione’s hips jerked against his fingers, unable to stop from gyrating into his hand despite the voices in the back of her mind urging her not to. She wasn’t supposed to encourage this, to allow herself to enjoy her own deflowering. 

“Just get this over with, stop—”

The words melted into a moan when he released his grip on her hair to grip her thigh and hike it up over his shoulder. He kissed the inside of her leg, long and forked tongue curling over the skin.

Hermione couldn’t look away.

“No.” 

His tone left no room for argument, and then, he was kissing up her leg, his finger pushing, and prodding at her clitoris. She clenched, squirming when he pulled his legs back until he was on his knees between her legs, slouching over her.

“You are  _ mine _ ,” he purred the words into her leg, his breath fanning across the skin centimeters from where his fingers were toying with her, flicking and gliding over her with precise strokes.

Hermione covered her mouth to stifle the sound, teeth catching on her finger when his mouth hovered between her legs, wet and hot against her folds. A sharp contrast to the cold fingers exploring her.

“If I wish to take my time pulling you apart, inch by glorious  _ inch _ , then I shall. If I wish to thrust inside your mouth and choke you with my flesh, I will. You have no power here, Hermione.”

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, watching helplessly as his lips descended on her folds, his fingers parting her and exposing her quivering insides to his piercing stare.

This was the greatest kind of humiliation. To be an accessory to their own undoing, but she had no choice. She’d gladly do it again if it meant saving Harry’s soul. This was for Harry, not for  _ herself. _

She didn’t know why she had to remind herself of this fact. 

“Unless, of course, you wish to renege on the agreement, and rather our sweet boy to fall into my hands. I am not so cruel as to deprive you of your free will.”

Hermione wanted to laugh, to cry, her hand falling away from her mouth to grip tufts of grass at her sides. 

_ A choice? _

Hermione laughed until the tears she’d been holding back streamed down her cheeks, a lump forming in her throat that tasted too much like grief and despair. She wondered if that was what death tasted like.

“You call this a choice? You’re forcing me to choose between my own virtue and Harry’s soul. How is this not cruel?”

Instead of answering, Voldemort’s mouth kissed between her legs, his sharp eyes never leaving hers. She jolted. Her hips shaking when his mouth parted and his tongue slid against her wet folds, pushing inside. 

_ Oh _ .

She closed her eyes, her other hand falling over his bald head for want of something to hold onto.

His tongue plunged into her, stretched her. It was foreign and strange, but each time he curled it, each moment his fingers stroked her clitoris, her mind emptied of all thought. It was too much, and—

Something was pulsing low in her belly, a pressure that crushed her beneath its weight.

He pulled away, his tongue sliding up to focus on the sensitive nub above, and Hermione was lost. Her hips pushed into his face, unable to stifle the shocks rushing up her spine with each swipe of his mouth. 

He was devouring her, corroding her like a poison thrumming through her veins.

_ No _ .

Corruption had no business being this good. 

Voldemort’s eyes flashed at her, and Hermione wanted nothing more than to duck her head, to hide her shame. 

She didn’t. 

She wouldn’t hide from this. 

A finger forced itself inside her before she could brace herself, stretching her beyond what his tongue had. Hermione’s lip quivered, a bead of saliva streaming down the corner of her mouth.

_ No. _

Hermione’s back bowed, her nails digging into his scalp for purchase, for anything to hold onto. She could endure this. She must. This wasn’t  _ pleasure _ . This was corruption, the unraveling of one’s innocence. None of this was pleasurable, none of this could be—

_ Liar _ , a voice hissed in the back of her mind, cutting through the rush of blood in her ears.  _ You love it. You love _ —

Hermione whimpered when a second finger joined the first, when his tongue did not stop, would not stop. It stroked her, rubbing and teasing at her clitoris.

The pressure continued to build inside her, pulsing now in time with the frantic beats of her heart. It was maddening, that feeling. It choked her.

_ Please. _

She begged with words, willing for his eyes to stop looking at her, witnessing how she slowly came apart. Her cheeks burned, a cold sweat beginning to roll down her forehead and gather on her spine. 

When his teeth closed around her clit, Hermione screamed, her head jerking to and fro, her body convulsing beneath him. A third finger pushed into her, a smaller finger grazing the wrinkled skin of her an—

Hermione kicked, bucked and tried to push him off, to stop. 

_ No. No. No. No. _

Voldemort devoured her as if he couldn’t see the pleading in her eyes, as if he weren’t watching her come undone, break to pieces before his gaze. She knew he saw it all.

_ That one’s a cruel one, Hermione. You shouldn’t get too close. Heaven knows when it is that He will cast Thomas out for acting out of turn. The Lord only has so much patience. _

It was a memory of whispered warnings. A simpler time when Hermione hadn’t believed Tom was capable of such cruelty.

How wrong she had been.

Voldemort set a brutal pace, thrusting his fingers inside, only to pull out. Hermione twisted too, unable to hold still, to remain silent as the pressure continued to build, coming ever closer to her undoing.

Voldemort curled his fingers inside her, at the same time his teeth nipped at her clitoris and his finger plunged into her bottom.

Hermione wasn’t ready. The pressure crested, and dragged her under. There was a rush, the sound of water splattering, and her own screams.  The wave swallowed her whole. Her body collapsed.

“You taste absolutely _ divine.” _

Hermione let out a weak groan when he yanked his fingers from inside her, straightening until he was a looming shadow above her.

“I expected nothing less.”

His hand glistened beneath the stars, incandescent. Hermione could only watch as he sucked the same fingers that’d been inside her, into his mouth. Savoring her. All without taking his eyes off her and a self-satisfied gleam in his gaze.

“On your knees.”

The command didn’t register. Not at first. She was still reeling from the explosion of ecstasy that had consumed her. It had been madness: pure, unadulterated insanity. How did humans find this pleasurable? How did they allow their faculties to become so impaired,  _ lost  _ to the whims of their own body?

Voldemort’s hand was in her hair in seconds, a spark of something like impatience flashing in his eyes. Hermione cried out, hands coming up to clutch onto his violent grip on her hair before he rolled her, forcing her onto her stomach.

“I will not ask you again. On your  _ knees _ .”

Hermione grit her teeth, a fierce wave of loathing pooling in her stomach before she pushed herself up to her elbows and knees. Her legs were shaking, her arms straining with the weight of her own body, but Hermione did not complain.

She refused to say a word, to even look at him. 

“Arch your back.” 

Hermione’s cheeks burned with humiliation at the delight in his voice, of the cold press of his hand on her upper back guiding her to the position he desired.

“Yes, that’s it. Now, spread your legs.”

Hermione swallowed hard, her fingers gripping onto the grass for purchase. She didn’t want to. This was  _ vile _ . Wrong. 

“Hermione.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest at the chill in his voice, his fingers digging into the delicate flesh stretched over her spine. It was a warning. A threat. Still, Hermione made no move to comply. 

She refused to be an accessory, to participate in the illusion of consent. 

“Oh, Hermione,  _ love _ .”

Gooseflesh rippled alongside her arms when Voldemort’s body pressed along her back, his hand sliding up her spin to splay between her shoulder blades.

“Why must you be so difficult? Even when it is in your best interest not to be? When I can make  _ this _ —” Hermione gasped when his nails dug into her skin, a whisper of dark and terrible magic forcing her wings to burst from out of her back. “—so pleasurable for you? When I can show you horizons beyond even  _ His  _ capabilities?”

“Because you’re a  _ monster _ . Have always been,” Hermione hissed through clenched teeth, her wings unfurling across her back. “You’ve no room in that heart of yours for anyone but  _ yourself _ .”  

Hermione cried out when his hand caught a wing between his fingers and crushed it in his grip. White hot pain rushed through her, and she struggled, tried to buck him off to no avail. It was like trying to throw off a boulder.

Voldemort didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. She could practically feel his fury along her skin, in the groove of his fingers digging into her wing until her bones groaned. 

“S-stop.  _ Stop!” _

He didn’t.

Hermione shrieked when Voldemort, in one swift move, wrenched her wing back. The tell-tale crunch of her bone snapping to pieces was all she could hear through her screams. Voldemort’s arm wrapped around her waist, holding her up.

“I can make this painful for you, Hermione. Show you suffering beyond even your wildest  _ comprehension _ —”

It was agony, pure and absolute pain that consumed her. She couldn’t stop the sobs, hardly noticing when something hot and hard pressed against her folds. She didn’t need to look behind her, to  _ see _ , to know what that was.

_ No. _

Hermione’s back bowed, her mouth opening into a silent scream when a warmth began to spread over her mangled wing, mending and reshaping itself. She let out a relieved sigh despite herself.

“—But that is what you most desire. You do not want this to be pleasurable. No, you would rather I hurt you, that your undoing be as painful as the corruption of the human soul.”

Hermione couldn’t breathe, trembling beneath the weight of his hands on her wings, stroking along the sides right where he’d crushed it. It twinged, a jolt of something hot kindling low in her stomach. 

He yanked on her hair, pulling onto the wild strands until he back ached, until she could feel Voldemort’s mouth against her ear. His voice spoke in a low whisper.

“Make no mistake, Hermione. You will enjoy every  _ moment _ of what I do to you.”

Voldemort’s mouth sucked along the shell of her ear, his hand stroking and smoothing along the feathers of her wings with a patient flourish. She squirmed beneath him, chasing after the press of his body against her will.

_ Stop. _

Hermione’s head slumped when he released his hold on her hair and found its way to her buttocks. She swallowed hard at the sensation, unable to move with her wing still caught in his grasp. 

_ No. _

“Do you understand?”

Even if she didn’t want pleasure, there was something innately terrible about having one’s wings crushed. He could knife her down, break her limbs, but no pain was greater than what she’d experienced mere moments before.  It was for that reason alone that she found herself nodding. 

Oh, how she  _ hated  _ him.

“Good. Now, spread your legs. Your ward can’t quite see you.”

Hermione swallowed hard, her nape heating with shame. She’d almost forgotten that Harry was still there, watching them. She wished Voldemort hadn’t pointed that out. 

It would only make what she was about to permit so much worse.

_ Forgive me, my Lord. Harry, please, forgive me. _

Clenching her jaw, Hermione finally complied. She opened her legs until the night air kissed parts of her only Voldemort’s mouth had touched, the hairs of her arms standing on end from the skin-crawling sensation.  

“Ah, how lovely,” Voldemort said above her, his hand sliding down her buttocks to press a finger against the cheek and spread her further. “It is still so red and wet.”

Hermione bit her cheek, stifling her own sounds when the hand massaging her wing found a sensitive spot on the underside. It was dizzying, that feeling. Her breath caught, her insides clenching in an all too familiar way.

Voldemort paused, his fingers stilling over the wing before he renewed the motions, but firmer now. Enveloping. Her fingers clawed at the ground to stop herself from making a sound.

“Liked that, did you? I’d forgotten how sensitive wings can be. It’s been a long time since I lost mine, as you well know.”

Hermione threw her head back when he squeezed it, kneading and stroking at the wing until her vision darkened at the corners, her buttocks grinding into his hand despite the voice whispering for her to not to.

_ Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. _

Hermione’s body refused to comply, utterly useless with Voldemort’s attentions on her wings. Then, he was pulling the wing back, stretching it out until something moist and hot air fanned against the feathers. 

“I wonder…”

Hermione moaned when what could only be his  _ mouth _ closed around her wing, sucking and lapping at it with his serpentine tongue. It curled over the delicate bones, between the creases and the folds. 

She writhed beneath him, butting her hips against his.

It was too much. All of it.

Hermione was going mad, knees buckling beneath her when his teeth closed around that spot on the underside of her wing, and she began to convulse. 

“N-no, stop!  _ Stop _ .”

She clawed at the ground for purchase, that familiar pressure building inside her. It was a warning. A sign. She was so near it, so close she could taste it in the back of her mouth. She didn’t want to fall. Not again.

But just as she thought she would topple, fall into that precarious abyss and into a world of pure ecstasy, he released her.

Hermione had no time to be relieved, to let out a breath, however, before that hand joined the other at her buttocks and spread her beneath his gaze. She fell still, her breaths loud and harsh as she tried not to move, to remain as still as possible.

_ Oh no. Please don’t tell me. _

His mouth descended on her, tongue prodding at the furled skin of her anus. She tried to pull back, to escape the foreign sensation, but his grip on her hips held her in place. 

He sucked and tasted her, dragged her onto his face and closer to his body. She was trapped, both in mind and body. She could do nothing but allow him to violate her, to tease at her hole with his tongue before plunging inside and twisting. 

“T-that’s  _ vile _ ,” Hermione said through clenched teeth, her head jerking back. He didn’t answer. There was no evidence he had heard her at all. 

He devoured her, tongue sucking and licking and tasting, until her hands collapsed beneath her body and her face hit the ground. 

Then, Voldemort’s hand was trailing down her leg and plunging into her sex, curling and twisting into her folds. She screamed, scrambling on the ground to get back on her hands and knees, unprepared.

That pressure burst to life again, more insistent. 

_ Please let this _ end.

Voldemort tore away from her buttocks with a gasp, his fingers still pushing and curling inside her. Sweet and slow. 

“P-please just—” Hermione started, hating herself for what she was about to ask. But she couldn’t take any more of this. She wanted this to be over, for this to  _ end.  _ “—just do it,  _ Tom.  _ I-I can’t. I  _ can’t _ .”

His hand grabbed the nape of her neck and forced her face to the ground, his bare hips and hardness wedging against her folds. In the same way he had before.

“Ask me to fuck you.”

Hermione cringed, caught off-guard by the crude language. 

“ _ Beg  _ me to take you, to make you break apart on my cock.”

Something angry and foul lodged itself in her throat. A scream. A cry. Hermione didn’t know, but it tasted vile, burned in her throat like acid. 

She wouldn’t beg for her own violation. She’d sooner swallow glass, bite out her own  _ tongue _ —

_ But would you rather he keep you here, however long he wants, until you fulfill the terms of the agreement? Would you risk letting him take Harry’s soul?  _

Hermione clenched her hands into tight fists, dreading what she was about to do. She didn’t know how she still had the capacity to be afraid, to feel shame.

Swallowing back her bile, Hermione opened her mouth.

“Please, f-fuck me,” Hermione whispered, teeth biting so hard into her cheek it stung. The taste of iron in her mouth hardly registered.

Voldemort fell still above her before he was lining himself up at her back, the tip of something moist and hard prodding against her folds. Hermione’s bravery wavered, but she swallowed back her nerves, refusing to crumble.

“Again.”

If Hermione thought she had hated him before, what she felt for him now was pure loathing. Never before had she been stricken with this violent desire to hurt someone else, to pry them apart with her bare hands and watch them choke—

“ _ Fuck me _ !” Hermione spat, channeling all the rage and terror writhing inside her. 

Voldemort did not hesitate. 

In seconds, he was pushing into her, stretching her past what even his three fingers had been able to accomplish. Hermione whimpered, swallowing back her groans when he continued to push and  _ push  _ until he bottomed out inside her.

He was too big, too thick. It hurt so much, his girth. It was like she’d been cleaved in two.

Hermione didn’t dare complain, however. She kept her mouth shut. It was better for it to hurt, for the pain to linger like an illness in the back of her mind, and rot her from the inside. Pain was better.

_ Purer. _

Voldemort’s hand made its way between her legs, soft and gentle. She cringed, tried to pull away from it, but he found her clit despite her efforts and began to circle around the nub. 

Hermione swallowed back her moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“Ah, ah, unclench your jaw, love. I want to  _ hear _ you.”

Hermione turned her head, knowing that she would not be able to see him from this angle, but wishing to nevertheless, if only to shoot him the most hateful glance she could. 

Because that’s what she felt, what bubbled in her stomach and threatened to poison her, ruin her. 

She  _ hated  _ him. For what he did, for what he made her  _ feel _ .

_ Because once upon a time, with starry eyes and a dazzling smile, you had _ —

Hermione was torn away from her thoughts when Voldemort began to move, pulling back until only the tip of his-his  _ cock _ — _ that vile, repulsive word _ —was inside her and thrust back in, hitting something within that made her fling her head back, her body undulate beneath his.

The pressure returned with a vengeance and Hermione wished for death, for her consciousness to flee her so that she didn’t have to come apart on his cock.

She whimpered and moaned, her insides clenching around him. His fingers were tweaking her clit with each thrust, the wet squelch of his fingers and slide his cock like the rancorous sound of thunder.

“That’s it, just like that.”

The slap of skin against skin assaulted her senses, deafening. She couldn’t escape it, couldn’t resist when his thumb pinched into her clit and wrenched a loud cry from her throat.

Her vision came in and out of focus, but still, she took it, back bowing and hips moving against his, allowing him better access. 

_ It’ll be over. It’ll be over soon. _

“You don’t know how long I’ve imagined taking you this way, defiling you in much the same way you infected me.”

Hermione’s head spun, her breaths stalling in her lungs when his grip on the back of her neck tightened to the point of pain, his nails biting into the delicate flesh. 

“You, who had had the audacity to abandon  _ me _ , to let me fall after everything I’d done—”

Hermione choked back a laugh, unable to stop once she’d begun. She laughed, and laughed, and laughed, tears streaming down her cheeks despite it. 

“E-everything you’d done?  _ Tom _ , please don’t delude yourself into thinking you actually cared, that your fall from grace had anything to do with  _ me _ —”

At Voldemort’s warning growl, Hermione had a moment to brace herself before he was pounding into her with more violence, his fingers pinching at her clitoris with enough aggression to make her scream and convulse.

She was drowning in him, in the scent of dirt and mud. Buried in the filth, in both his and her own sins.

“It had everything to do with you,” Voldemort hissed from above, his hand falling away from her neck to rake his suddenly clawed fingers down her spine, between the folds of her wings. 

Hermione vision went white from the agony.

“Or did you think His punishing you was a coincidence? That you had merely been imprisoned because you had lied to Him about the true extent of our relationship?”

If Hermione had not been assaulted by the myriad of sensations choking her, she might have frozen, her veins as cold as ice. Instead, she could only cry out and unravel beneath the onslaught of Voldemort’s cock plowing into her.

“W-what are you talking ab—”

“Don’t play dumb, Hermione. The role does not suit you. You know precisely what I am referring to.”

Hermione shook her head, tongue thick with her denials and refusals. At the drag of Voldemort’s hand up her wing, those protests morphed into nothing. 

She was drowning, floating in murky waters. That pressure now an insistent prod in her navel. She was so  _ close. _

“He wanted to know if you were capable of luring me here, into the human world to drive your sword into my  _ heart.” _

Saliva dripped down the corners of her mouth, Hermione unable to keep her mouth shut when Voldemort was touching her wings, when he was hitting that spot inside her that made her blood  _ sing. _

“To see for Himself, if you were loyal enough to the cause to banish  _ me  _ by exploiting the bond between us.”

Hermione shut her eyes, refusing to listen. She wanted to  _ drown _ . To sink until she couldn’t think anymore. 

_ He knew _ . 

Hermione almost laughed.

_ He knew. _

“And you weren’t, were you, dearest Hermione?” Voldemort’s voice softened, but his hips remained brutal. There was no give. No break. “You couldn’t. You looked Him in the eye and  _ lied _ .”

Voldemort’s mouth latched onto her wing, kissing along the feathers and the bones, worshipping, kind, consuming. 

Hermione broke apart with a loud shriek, her vision going black. 

Voldemort never stopped talking.

_ Precious creature. Beautiful soul. _

_ My soul. _

_ My heart. _

_ My angel. _

_ Mine. _

_ Mine.  _

_ Always. _

Her fluids splashed onto the ground, onto his cock, unable to stop herself from collapsing, with Voldemort’s cock still in her. 

_ He knew. Had known. That’s why he’d come. _

Voldemort didn’t stop fucking her, long after she’d stopped moving. He continued to push and pull, push and pull, grinding her into a pulp, until she was nothing but dust.

When he came, Hermione hardly felt it. Not when she was burning up, when his skin did nothing to soothe that heat, to stop from scalding her from the inside out. 

_ ‘You don’t understand, do you?’ Tom’s eyes watched her, uncertain. As if he were waiting for her to turn her back at a moment’s notice, to leave him in the dark as everyone else had. _

Tears burned along her cheeks, a sob caught in her throat. Voldemort pulled her into his arms, but still, she cried, unable to stop the tears once they began. The memories hurt. They always did.

_ ‘What do I not understand, Tom?’ Hermione asked, hands on her hips. There was nothing to fear. She would never let him go. She refused. ‘ _ _Baby, you’re my angel._ _ Remember? I sang those words to you. I know you have no patience for human music, but Tom _ — _ ’ _

Hermione shook, unable to help the agony that ripped through her. Her magic was biting her, eating her from the inside. She could feel it blackening, could taste the acrid flavor of smoke and sulfur in the back of her throat.

She was falling, falling,  _ falling. _

_ ‘ _ — _ You’ll always be mine.’ _

The earth cracked open like a jagged mouth beneath her body, and Hermione could only close her eyes, resigned.

Voldemort had said he would not take her light.

He’d neglected to mention that she’d be losing herself instead.


End file.
